The Hymns of Nordhelm
by dances-with-cacti
Summary: Twenty years after the fall of Sauron, a new threat gathers beyond the crags of the Grey Mountains to the North. A mysterious cult is in pursuit of Elves for their ancient wisdom and immortal light. When his kin begin to vanish, Legolas sets out to find them, but instead falls prey to the same dark menace.
1. Upon the Rot of Dead Evils

**Author's Preface: Welcome, all! Here is the beginning of a very winding tale. For those that found the summary a bit lacking, here's a taste of what's to come. In these chapters and beyond, there will be new faces, old friends, fellowship, sorrow, Orc-killing, ale, friendly gypsies, mountains, giant armored wolves, more ale, evil plots, women with swords, a creepy cult, horses, angry Elves, spooky caves, a prostitute, and unlikely romances. Do any or all of these interest you? Then read on! Mind the first chapter; it's a little heavy. However, the load lightens the farther you read! Cheers, friends!**

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Chapter One:

_Upon the Rot of Dead Evils_

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From the peaceful, sun-bright West, a company of three had come to drive back the dregs of a long decided war. Cloaked in green and the silence of skill, they eyed the mouths of dank caves run thick with mud.

It was in there, they knew, that dark things skulked; dark, heavy things with black eyes and slick, yellow teeth. Things with breath that turned the air putrid and whose hides reeked of malice and blood. These were miserable creatures, long-suffering in their hateful nature. With leaden steps, they lurked among the shadows, feet squelching against the suck and pull of the boggy ground. Forever craving the taste of flesh, they preyed upon the unwitting with wicked blades of ill-tempered iron. Well and truly, these beasts were the bane of the East, the last of Sauron's disbanded orcs.

Legolas lay still amidst the marsh-weeds, the wetness of the earth slowly soaking his clothes. With his fair, far-seeing eyes, he watched the last drippings of Sauron's Orc hoards stir among the foot-rocks of Mordor's barren wastes. Even from such a distance, they seemed restless and bitter. Foul as they were, they swilled cheap drink and fought each other needlessly, the duels always ending in death and cannibalism. The stench of roasting Orc meat hung on the air. Legolas wrinkled his nose, glancing to his companions. To his left lay Gimli, son of Gloin, and to his right lay Arathel, daughter of the King of Gondor.

Their mission this day was a simple one: to continue the work of years gone by, cleansing from Middle Earth the evils that had not perished with the fall of the Dark Lord some twenty years ago. In truth, not much had changed since those dark days. Despite Sauron's end, Middle Earth still felt the presence of shadows, and Legolas felt it his duty to remain in the service of the light until every corner of the land was free from darkness. Much as during the time of the Fellowship, Legolas journeyed and fought with the bravest and best of friends. Gimli still swung his axe as if the wears of time had passed him over, and despite his having settled into a quiet rule befitting of his age, Aragorn, King of all Men, had provided Legolas a fine companion in his daughter. Arathel was now nearly twenty and already a feared name among Orcs and Men alike. Though she did not have the light of immortality, her elven blood showed nonetheless in her skills, bearing, and lightly tapered ears. Her beauty was unquestionable, but more impressive still was her wisdom and her gift for both healing ills and inflicting them. Truly, she was the melding of two great lines. Lying with her and Gimli among the reeds, Legolas could not think of any who could offer better company.

Beside him, the son of Gloin snorted in frustration.

"How long would you have us wait, laddie?" came the question, gruff and impatient, "We been layin' here for a good long time, and ain't nothin' that's changed."

Legolas felt a smile come to his lips.

"Are you so eager for a rematch that you've become this impatient, Gimli?"

The Dwarf huffed.

"What need have I for a rematch when I so clearly won the last round, eh, elfling? I should think that you'd be the one impatient for a chance to regain your princely honor!"

"Whatever barbs you set to your words, Master Dwarf, I will always have one truth to comfort me."

"Eh? And what's that?"

Legolas looked at his friend with a glimmer in his pale eyes.

"You will always be short."

For a moment Gimli said nothing, only glared into the Elf's pale face. Then a great smile split his ruddy beard.

"Aye!" he chuckled, "we Dwarves are short and our women hairy, and don't you soon forget it!"

"No sooner than I'll forget that Elves are haughty and fuss greatly about being clean," said Legolas, reaching to take his bow from his back. "But you are right," he continued, "We have waited long enough. Night is here and the darkness is in our favor."

With a sure hand, he put an arrow to the string and drew back until the fletching brushed his cheek. He narrowed his eyes.

"Arathel?"

"Aye."

Legolas looked to the side to see the young Lady of Gondor rear back from the swamp grass, bow nocked and drawn back in a hard arc. Her gaze tracked the lumbering of a particularly large Orc who had strayed slightly from the camp.

"I have him," she murmured, almost as if to the arrow near her shoulder.

Legolas nodded.

"I will take the left," he said, "Aim for their throats. These Orcs are of a larger sort. Their skulls are often hard."

"Perhaps for your arrows, but not for my axe!" growled Gimli, his stout hands twisting around the handle of said weapon, "Let them come. I will cleave their ugly heads in two."

"We will drop as many as we can, then you can lead the charge with your . . . cleaving."

Legolas eyed an Orc squatting near the mouth of a cave and took aim.

"Now?" breathed Arathel.

"Now."

With a thrum of taut string, the archers let loose their arrows. There was a faint whistle on the air, then two Orcs dropped soundlessly in the distance.

"Again," said Legolas. He and Arathel began to fire at will upon the bewildered orcs. Another six hit the dirt before one squealed and pointed out into the marshes.

"Here they come!" said Gimli, raising himself from the ground and squaring his stance. He held his axe at the ready.

On the rocky banks of the marshes, more than a score of frenzied Orcs gathered with their weapons waving and their crooked jaws set asunder by hateful screams. A few in front were shoved out into the swamp water. Squealing, they began to pick their way towards the small band of warriors. There were several loud splashes as more Elvish arrows found their mark.

"There are many," said Arathel. Her voice was flat and without fear.

Legolas nodded.

"There's more coming from inside the caves."

"I will charge them with Gimli. You are surest with a bow. Give us cover."

Legolas nodded once more. Reaching back into his quiver, he took two arrows between his fingers and set them to his bow. Beside him, Arathel stood and drew her steel. The rapier in her hand shone blue and deadly against the glow of Orcish fires. It was of Elvish make, Legolas himself having contributed to its design and forging. Wielding it, the Lady of Gondor was a force to be reckoned with.

With a cool anger in her eyes, Arathel addressed her Dwarvish companion.

"Let us send them into flame," she said.

Gimli grinned.

"Aye, lassie."

With Legolas firing off arrows between them, the two raised their voices into thundering battle cries, readied their weapons, and charged.

* * *

"Final tally: ten dead Orcs!" laughed Gimli. He dislodged his axe from an Orc's head and wiped its brain matter on the grass.

Legolas paused in his work of gathering arrows. He smirked, "It seems you lost, then, to my eleven."

"And you to my twelve," said Arathel. The Lady of Gondor was reclining on the ground, a blade of swamp grass between her teeth. Legolas raised his eyebrows at her and she returned the look. "Don't look so shocked, good Elf," she said, "With the teacher I've had, you should expect no less."

Legolas inclined his head with a slow, appreciative smile. For many years—indeed, nearly since her birth—Arathel had been under his guardianship and tutelage. It was a charge with which Aragorn of Gondor trusted his Elvish friend implicitly. As king, Aragorn was a busy man with many children, and though his heart ached with love for each of them, his station spread his time thin. Noting the instant liking that his daughter and best friend had taken to each other merely days after she was born, he saw no reason that the two should not inherit the bonds of fellowship. Twenty years to the present, those bonds were as strong as ever. Legolas and Arathel were as close as blood kin.

Presently, the Elven warrior swung his bow onto his back and sank down to rest on his heels. He folded his arms across his knees and looked between his two companions. Gimli was packing his pipe for a smoke, humming and chuckling, oblivious in his triumph. Arathel was not so content with their victory. She stared steadily back at her friend and mentor, her senses keen to his quiet thinking.

"Something troubles you," she said at last.

Legolas nodded.

"This place is decayed," he said, eyes moving over the lands around them, "The Wilds here grow upon the rot of dead evils. The trees are stunted and sickly from all the anguish in the soil." He tilted his head as if to listen. "They speak of shadows . . . of a long darkness cast by foreign shapes. From the North."

"Ah, there he is, speaking riddles with plants!" Gimli cried laughing. He blew smoke from between his hairy lips, "Rest your mind, laddie. The foothills of Mordor have long been a dark, sad place. What you're hearing are the voices of trees bitter from lack of light, nothing more."

"Still, there is no use risking it," Arathel said with some finality. She stood and shook leaves from her cloak. "We should make for the West. There's a small township near Mirkwood where we can find a meal and warm beds."

"Oh, ho! And some mead, no doubt!" Gimli cheered. He put up his pipe and rose with eagerness. "What are we waiting for, then?"

Legolas smiled at the Dwarf and his seemingly boundless affection smoke and drink. He teased his friend, telling him that such vices would send him to an early grave.

"Oh, nonsense! Besides, pipeweed and stout ale are what make this life worth living!"

Gimli's good cheer proved infectious as Arathel began to laugh, swinging an arm around the Dwarf's shoulders as the small company of three struck out for Mirkwood. Legolas smiled along with them, though the expression quickly faded. Hanging back behind his companions, the Elf again tilted his head. The trees were still whispering their ominous little warnings, saying things that set a chill to his mind. With alarm, Legolas paused mid-stride and looked back across the marshes. Seeing nothing, he frowned and turned back to follow his friends, unable to shake the eerie feeling that they were all being watched.

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Reviews are **_loved_**.

Critiques are **_encouraged_.**

**_Always_** feel free to ask questions.

Much love,

_~Dances-With-Cacti_


	2. The Iron Mare Inn

**Author's Note: Our heroes now arrive in the little post-war town of Bregostead, somewhere between Mordor and Mirkwood. Tell me, folks, what do we think of Arathel so far? I feel that Tolkien's stories are sharply lacking in strong female characters and I am hoping to fill in that gap with a woman-or _women_, actually-who do something other than, _ahem_, pine over men. Arathel is my first attempt, but she will not be the last. Read on, friends!**

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Chapter Two:

_The Iron Mare Inn_

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The settlement of Bregostead was small but stolidly built. Thick stone walls more than a man's height high surrounded the modest hamlet, protecting its quiet inhabitants from the ripping winds of the plateau. The place had been built out of the ashes of war, one of many little townships of its kind. Like the rest, Bregostead was a symbol of rebirth, of Man's return to the theater of prosperity. A traveler never wanted there for a service or supply—the place had blacksmiths, tailors, farmers, horse masters, herbalists and business folk with storefronts that sold every odd and end. However, of chief interest to the weary wanderer in Bregostead were usually the _Iron Mare_ _Inn_ and its adjoining tavern.

From her place atop of grassy hillock, Arathel push strings of damp hair from her face and laughed. Bregostead lay before her like a basket of light.

"By Valar, it's about damn time," she said, her face split with a white grin. After their long march, they were all ready for a rest, worn down and soaked through as they were by a hard autumn rain.

Gimli lifted his nose to the breeze and breathed deep the scent of wood smoke.

"I can almost smell the meat on that fire," he growled. He hoisted his axe higher on his back and made for the cobbled road ahead of them. "Come on then!" he called, without looking back.

A fist on each hip, Arathel turned to Legolas. His attention was so focused on the settlement in the distance he almost didn't hear her question, "Something the matter, dear Prince?"

He shook his head, eyes moving slowly to meet hers. He spoke the words as if they astonished him: "I'm _hungry_."

Arathel stared at him a moment before erupting in laughter. She held a hand to her armored stomach as she was wracked by good humor. Tears formed in her eyes.

"Woe be the day that you ever drink enough mead that it makes you stumble!" she said.

Legolas did not often blink, but he blinked at her then in confusion. She only shook her head in reply. Patting his cheek, Arathel then took his sleeve in her hand and dragged him forward.

She called out across the plain to the receding figure that was Gimli.

"The good Elf has admitted to being hungry, Master Dwarf! Shall we have a feast in his honor?"

Legolas widened his eyes in horror.

Gimli stopped dead in his tracks and turned around.

"He said what, now! O-oh, but this is a rare day! Three day's walk on nothing but soggy bread and scavenged berries is enough to get even an Elf to admit mortal hunger, eh! Heh-heh. I'll go on ahead and have them prepare us a kingly feast."

Legolas began to understand their joke. He said in Elvish to Arathel as she continued to pull him forward, _Sometimes you are too much like Aragorn_. His voice was stern, but already a smile was playing around his eyes and mouth. As a Prince by breeding but a trickster by nature, Legolas sometimes found it hard to remain so reserved and poised as was expected of him by his kin. Arathel, like her father before her, seemed to make easy work of coaxing him into mischief.

"And our fellowship is the better for it!" laughed the young Lady of Gondor. She released her friend's arm and broke into a run. "Come! Let's catch him, else you know he'll make trouble for us at the tavern!"

Legolas smiled and ran after her.

* * *

The innkeeper of the _Iron Mare_ was a woman with a chiseled but not uncomely face. Her name was Gelda, and with her wild mane of hair and broad hips, hands and shoulders, it seemed very much like she might be the "iron mare" for which her inn was named.

Gimli was altogether smitten.

He sat across the bar from her for some good long hours, eating several plates of roasted game and downing countless tankards of ale. At first he paid for his food and drink with coin, but after a while, his payment came only as jokes and tales of misadventure. Gelda seemed to consider this a fair trade. Her laughter filled the place to the rafters, hearty and genuine.

Legolas and Arathel sat together at a table by the fire sipping quietly at spiced wine. They'd emptied two plates each and were well and truly full, though Gimli had put them both to shame.

"I can out-drink him, though I could never out-dine him," said Legolas, his eyes half closed with contentment.

Arathel gave him a lopsided grin, her gaze not quite in focus. When she spoke, it was as if with great care.

"I . . . can do neither. But that is our secret. Half-elf to Elf . . . you see?" She winked and tapped at her nose, though it took her a couple tries to find it.

Legolas sat up in surprise.

"It's affecting you!"

Arathel snorted.

"I am _affected_, you mean. The . . . affect-_ing_ passed out of tense some time ago." With a bleary grin, she laid her head on her arm and listened as Gelda's laugh rose again from behind the bar. She closed her hazel eyes.

"Do you suppose they'll . . . marry and have hairy little children together?"

At that, Legolas smiled a smile that was almost a laugh.

"Nothing is certain," he replied.

"Cryptic as ever."

Arathel opened one eye and looked at him. After a while, her smile softened into something more discerning. Legolas met her gaze, though after a long stretch of silence, the scrutiny began to feel uncomfortable. He looked down. Arathel frowned.

"I think of you often," she said, "and I wonder if you are lonely."

Legolas looked back up sharply.

"Every day," she continued, "more of your kin leave these shores, and you have little close family of your own. Just your father, and he . . . well, perhaps I am just too used to my own father's tender habits."

The pair sat in silence as Arathel's meaning hung on the smoky tavern air. Legolas stared hard at the tabletop as if searching for answers in the grain of the wood. At last, a look of tired sadness came over his face. The affect was slight, but it so dampened the Elf's usual light that Arathel raised her head.

Legolas spoke in Elven tongue.

_To be Eldar,_ he said,_ is to be alone, a river stone in passing waters._

Though he did not elaborate, the Prince's meaning was very clear. In the dim light, his eyes were downcast and dark. He had strange eyes, even among Elves. While often bright and clear, in certain moods and light they deepened to a gentle brown, as they were now. In them, Arathel saw a stirring sorrow and was crushed by it. With a rare look of heartache, she reached out and took one of her friend's hands in her own. She kissed the back of his fingers.

_Mellon-nin, my brother . . ._ _the river flows on, but you forever change its course_.

For a moment, Legolas did not breathe. Her words, it seemed, landed too heavily to be painless.

Arathel placed his hand back on the table. Somewhat unsteadily, she made as if to get up from her seat.

"There are no stars to watch tonight," she said, "will you sleep?"

He nodded. Standing, he offered her his hand. Arathel waved him off.

"I'm fine."

"You're drunk."

"Yes, but I'm also fine."

She had no sooner said the words than Legolas caught her from falling face-first into the fire pit. Flames lapping only inches from her nose made her take pause.

"For tonight," she said at last, "I trust in the wisdom of the Elves!" and wrapped her arm around her fair friend's waist.

Together, they made their way—with some difficulty—to their rented rooms.

* * *

Reviews are **_loved_**.

Critiques are **_encouraged_.**

**_Always_** feel free to ask questions.

Much love,

_~Dances-With-Cacti_


	3. The Woman of the Night

**Author's Note: I have been asked if readers should expect romance in this story. The simply answer to that is yes, but pairings won't be so obvious as Legolas and Arathel. Those two are not, and never will be, anything other that very close friends. But don't worry, our favorite Elf won't be short on lovin' when the time is right. Neither will Arathel, for that matter. Now, who wants to see someone fluster an Elf prince? Read on!**

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Chapter Three:

_The Woman of the Night_

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Sleep did not come easily to Legolas that night. Despite being in almost desperate need of rest for both for body and mind, he could not stay the foreboding that unsettled him. Each time he felt himself sinking into the blue mist of dreams, his anxieties caused the fog to ebb from his vision. He could not shake the sense that something was _reaching_, its dark fingertips at his back. At last, with a shiver running deep in his body, the Prince of Mirkwood sat up on his bed.

The feeling that gripped him was the same that had taken hold some day's prior after their run-in with the Orcs. It had never really left him. Now, in this foreign tavern, many long days from anyplace truly familiar, the thing had him in a grasp so tightly that his breath seemed to pull from him like a thread through tar. It was _fear_, he realized, but a fear without rhyme of reason. He had seen nothing, heard nothing, and so had only this eerie, disembodied sense of danger to put him on edge. Worst of all, he seemed to be the only one of their company to be bothered by it.

Across the room, Arathel was sleeping soundly in her own bed, her body curled around the length her rapier. She clung to the weapon like a child to their most beloved toy. Drawing slow, easy breaths, she was the picture of calm. Back among the foot-rocks of Mordor, she had shown some worry over the dangers quoted to them by the stunted trees, but after passing out of that dark country, her disquiet had lifted while his had stayed. It led him to wonder if she had ever sensed anything at all, or if her alarm were only a byproduct of his own apprehension.

Of course, Gimli had felt nothing amiss from the onset, and based on his burbling, drunken snores off in the adjoining bedchamber, his feelings on the matter hadn't changed.

Sighing, Legolas climbed carefully out of bed, keeping his feet to the joints in the floorboards to avoid any squeaking. Taking his weapons from the wall and his boots in his hand, he made his way soundlessly to the door and slipped out into the hall. In the great room, the fire was burning low and red, casting odd shadows on the wall. Unnerved, he quickly bent to don his boots before making a swift departure out a side door.

The night in Bregostead was damp and cool, the air hung with a drizzle that seemed to never quite hit the ground. Legolas looked to his right and left before putting up his hood and starting out down the town's cobbled main street. He didn't have any particular destination in mind, but lying still in a dark room had done nothing for the weight that pressed upon him. The outside air was fresh, at least, and that helped settle him.

He wound his way through the little town, wandering up and down alleys, reading the signs swinging over storefronts. There were a few people still scattered about, even at this late hour, so he didn't feel completely alone. For the most part, the others paid him no attention despite his obviously foreign appearance. They were used to strange folk in their city, or perhaps they were strange themselves.

After a while, he crossed absently into a part of the town he hadn't yet explored. He realized immediately that this was the part of Bregostead where darker dealings were done. Though there were more people in the streets, they had less than half the purpose of the others he'd seen. Mostly there were beggars rattling their tins, but on a few occasions he caught sight of people passing small packages to each other in the shadows. From some of the looks he was getting, he understood that he was not welcome here and quickly made up his mind to leave. He was nearly to the main street when someone called out to him.

"Two Elves in as many days! What a handsome surprise!"

Legolas stopped short and turned, looking hard into the dark. There, off to his left, he spied a corseted woman in flowing skirts. She was leaning against a wall, half in light and half in shadow.

"Who are you?" he called.

She laughed, her voice deep and smooth. Pushing off the wall, she put a hand on her hip.

"How about we let that be my business," she said, "unless you feel like exchanging titles?"

He didn't, and was silent, watching her carefully from across the narrow street.

The coins on her skirt clinked softly as she moved.

She smiled. It was a sultry expression.

"And what's your pleasure, love?"

Legolas blinked.

"What?"

She paused, seemingly surprised. She studied him carefully, her dark gaze reading the confusion on his face. Suddenly, her own expression changed to one of amusement.

"Oh, I see!" she said, "And here I thought you'd come here for the same reason he did. It does seem unlikely, though, considering you are _far_ more fortunate in the face that he was. You've probably been breaking the hearts of Elf maidens and womenfolk from here to the Grey Havens for over a thousand years.

"Still," she curtseyed, "should you be interested, I'm available this evening. _Very_ available, in fact, if what you keep under your clothes follows half as well as your face."

Her eyes glittered.

"I might even give you a discount."

Realization hit Legolas like a club to the head.

"_Woman of the night_," he gasped.

She looked up at him, her smile unabashed.

"Aye, that's one name among many for one talent among a thousand."

The courtesan crossed the narrow street to meet him.

In full light, he could see she was neither young nor old, but she carried herself with saunter and sway that persuaded him of a confidence earned over many years of struggle. With her hands on her wide hips, she made for him slowly, her head titled. A smile lit on her red, sensual mouth. Her eyes narrowed and she looked him up and down, keen to the discomfort it caused him and obviously amused by it. Without really knowing why, Legolas scrambled back at her approach, albeit with a grace that a mortal would not have had. He found himself pressed to a wall.

She laughed.

"But aren't you just taut as a bowstring! Honestly, a night with me might do you some good."

"Not interested," he snapped, and tried to shift away.

She put a hand on his chest.

"No? Are you sure?" Leaning in, she said into his ear, "_I could help you relax_."

The Elvish words made him startle.

"I can tell by your leathers that you're a traveler," she continued, "You look as if you haven't had a warm night in a very long time…"

Something in his face made her hesitate.

"Or _ever?_" she said, not really asking.

The woman took on a look of genuine surprise. Legolas felt his discomfort so sharply that it turned his stomach.

"And with you looking like that!" she went on, shaking her head, "I never would have guessed it. You really are down in these back alleys by mistake."

Legolas turned his gaze away. He hated everything about what was happening in this moment, and it showed in every line of him.

After a stretch, the courtesan's expression softened and she pulled away from him.

"You Elves are such sensitive creatures, really. It's no wonder you walk about this world wearing your cool formality like a mail. All you see through the ages is a steady pulse of death and rebirth, and all the chaos in between. I imagine that pains you after a while.

"You poor thing, I'm almost sorry I teased you. You really are young, aren't you? Even among Elves. So innocent . . . to _some_ things," she amended, eyeing the dagger hilts at his shoulder.

Legolas felt his neck burning.

"You presume much about me without ever asking a question," he snapped, though he instantly regretted saying anything for how flustered it made him sound.

The woman's brow quirked, her mouth turning up at the corners. She was intrigued by his challenge.

"Oh?" she said, "Is that so?"

He swallowed.

Without warning, she reclosed the distance between them with remarkable swiftness. Her dark eyes holding his, she put a hand to his knee and the other to his waist, curling her fingers into the front of his belt. She pulled him against her. With a sensuality both natural and practiced, she let her hot breath fall into the hollow of his throat as she slowly drew her touch upward along the inside of his leg.

Caught off guard for the first time in a century, Legolas drew in a hard gasp at her advances, his body going so stiff that he trembled. Pangs of hot and cold twisted in his stomach, causing his eyes to close and his head to fall back against stone.

Suddenly, her laughter broke over him like glass.

"If I have ever seen someone jump so far out of their skin, I can't recall when!" she said.

He opened his eyes in shock. She was smiling at him, her eyes playful but not unkind.

"My young friend," she laughed, "_that_ was the only question I would ever ask of you, and you just answered it quite plainly."

She released him and stepped back.

Legolas, for his part, was anything but amused. He felt frustrated, confused, and if honest with himself, somewhat violated. No one, in all his time alive, had taken such liberties with him. Never. No one had dared. Now, he felt shame and anger tangle inside him—_how dare she? And how could he let her?_ But he didn't lash out. He couldn't, because there was something else, something that stayed him. It was a small thing, dark, heavy, and flickering. Its black heat made his skin burn, but not in a way that hurt. This thing was like and ember in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn't bring himself to hate her for putting it there.

The woman read his internal conflict and her face grew serious.

"For all your innocence now," she said slowly, "I sense you are like tinder just waiting to be lit. Guard that white corner of your heart, my dear. If you start to burn, you'll find that flame very difficult to feed."

Legolas felt his anger flare once more. He'd had enough of her cryptic song and dance. He squared his jaw and stepped forward.

"You mentioned an Elf," he said sharply.

She hesitated, crossing her arms.

"Aye. Though he was not so pure as you."

"You will tell me about him."

"Will I?" she smirked, "Which details interest you? I have a whole night's worth."

Legolas gripped her arm.

"This is no game!"

"I can see as much. I have to admit; I think I liked it better when you were scared of me. Not that your temper doesn't have its own appeal."

Taking her meaning, his hackles began to rise once more, but before he could retort, she raised a hand.

"Relax, good Elf, I mean no harm. My life is my own but it is not an easy one. You can't fault me a good jest when I can get it. Come, I will answer all your questions, but I don't wish to do it here. Follow me."

"Where?"

She laughed at his suspicion.

"My, but you are a twitchy creature! I mean to lead you somewhere warm for a good cup of tea, nothing more. Now," she said, "come along."

With that, she turned on heel and made off down the cobbled street.

Grudgingly, he followed, his head still dizzied by all that had just happened.

* * *

Reviews are **_loved_**.

Critiques are **_encouraged_.**

**_Always_** feel free to ask questions.

Much love,

_~Dances-With-Cacti_


	4. Red Milk

**Author's Note: Ah, so Legolas has fallen in with a strange woman! What could go wrong? Well, now we learn a lot more about her and her people. Enjoy, my friends! Thank you so much for the Favs and Follows! If you leave a Review, I will love you forever!**

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Chapter Four:

_Red Milk_

* * *

Her name was Danza, she told him at last. She had offered the title to him quite suddenly, and he thought it likely that this wasn't her real name at all.

As she led him through the winding streets of Lesser Bregostead, Legolas felt his level of unease crest a plateau. He felt no danger in her presence, only a vague discomfort that he believed had less to do with her Danza more to do with what he had sensed in the marshes.

Finally, the pair arrived at what appeared to be a dead end. There was rubbish strewn all about, and the far wall was cluttered with empty barrels and unused building supplies.

"What is this place?" Legolas asked.

With a finger pressed to her lips and her left eye shut in a wink, Danza stepped forward and pushed aside a tattered banner to reveal a break in the city wall. Legolas felt his brow furrow in surprise. Bregostead's walls were known for their sturdy make; the city's architects would have laughed at the idea of a defect so large.

Noting his confusion, Danza's face opened up into a very self-satisfied smile.

"The best kept secrets are the verities that no man believes," she said, tapping the side of her nose. "No one knows this places exists because no-one believes that it could—except for those who already know that it does. Come, take a look."

She waved her hand, beckoning him to her. With some hesitation, Legolas moved to kneel beside her and squint into the dark passage. He could see no light at the other end.

"Where does it lead?" he asked.

Danza laughed, "Why, some place much lovelier than Bregostead's back alleys!"

Gathering up her skirts, the courtesan bent at the waist and made off into the passage. In the space between one breath and the next, she was gone into shadow. Her disappearance was so complete that seemed almost by magic. Leaning in, Legolas caught the sound of coins and silver laughter. It was faint, as if from a great distance. Then he heard Danza call to him:

"Come, you silly thing! 'Tis not half as long as it seems from there, though it is just as dark. Hurry on through! I know Elves have no love for such spaces, so you'll just have to be quick, like pulling a thorn from your thumb."

Legolas scowled with distaste. It was true—Elves did harbor a particular dislike for all places dark, cramped, or underground. The thought of crawling into such a hole after a woman he'd only just met made him very uncomfortable. However, his pride pressed more heavily on him than his concern. He didn't like that Danza seemed to think him afraid—he didn't like that one bit.

Taking a breath and holding it without meaning to, Legolas plunged into the crevasse.

Immediately, the smell and texture of the air changed. Legolas realized that this passage did not just go through the walls of Bregostead, but under them. A clammy airflow chilled his hands and face and he made his way downward, feeling along the damp walls. The going was slow and the space was tight; Legolas felt a quickening in his heart.

_This is how stupid folk die_, he cursed. However, almost as soon as he said the words, the air changed again and he found himself emerging from the tunnel. Danza was there, back to him, looking up. Above them was a tangled system of tree roots, and from between the gnarled limbs, Legolas could see the night sky clearing of its mist. Though the moon was still covered in cloud, its pale light brightened the sky.

"What is this place?" he inquired of Danza. Looking back, he could see no sign of Bregostead's walls; a hillock rose above the tree roots and hid the city from view.

Danza smiled.

"Ah, so the waylanes of the Romni are unknown even to the Elves, eh?"

Legolas jerked.

"_Romni!_" he echoed. The name was toxic to his ears. In the same way that flesh reacts flame, Legolas recoiled without his mind's direction. His voice came alive with contempt.

Danza's cheer faded. With her fists on her hips, she read him quite plainly.

"You act as if you've discovered me to be an Orc in a wig," she said. There was a lack of surprise in her words, as though his contempt was familiar to her. There was also sadness; he could see that he had disappointed her somehow, as if she'd expected him to act differently.

"Not too young to have your prejudices, eh?" she asked, "The Elves are quick to teach their hate."

Danza was right; Legolas had first heard the tales of the Romni as an elfling. Sitting in his father's court, he'd heard his elders make mention of the roaming mystics come from beyond the sands of Harad. The Romni, it was said, kept much to themselves for many centuries. They came and went in Middle Earth as they pleased, leaving hardly a mark on the land. It wasn't until the Dark Days, when Middle Earth fell once more to Sauron's shadow, that the roaming people were paid any attention.

From their lurid caravans sprang a scourge the likes of which there had never been before. In the blackest hour of a fell winter's night, the Romni began selling a foreign poison to Men and Elf-folk. With sly tongues, they hawked it as elixir from a world unseen even by Lords and Kings.

Red Milk, the poison was called. The stuff was a dangerous feat of Romni alchemy, rendered from the sap of a thick-stemmed plant native to lands east of Middle Earth. The sap was infused into pipeweed or tealeaves for use as smoke or drink. When consumed, the vile Red Milk put its victim into a haze of euphoria. It was a spell that could last for days.

The experience was addicting, and the market for sapweed and saptea expanded quickly into every corner of the country. Elves, in particular, were immensely fond of the ingredient's effects. For them, ritual partaking of Red Milk was considered a spiritual affair. However, it was not long before their consumption of Red Milk shifted from the ritualistic to the compulsive.

As if beset by a plague, countless Elves lost their bodies to dependence, finding they needed more and more of the sap to feel well. It was a sickness they shared with the Men of their country, and in the end, it brought mortality to them all. Elves and Men alike faded into darkness, their souls ensnared by a euphoric cloud of rose-colored mist.

Though he did his best not to remember, Legolas was oft haunted by recollections of a dimming light, a thinning queen, and a king bereft of all joy in the face of such cruel loss. On occasion, Legolas recalled a child—a fair child and dressed in silver silks—who peered out of window glass and mirrors. There was sadness in the boy's doe-brown eyes, the sadness of knowing his mother had waned, and the confusion of not knowing why. All he knew was her marbled gaze, the king's despair, and the smoke, pink and sweet, which curled out from under the parlor door.

As old and learned as he was now, Legolas knew what evil had claimed his mother, Queen of Mirkwood, Looking at the Romni woman before him, he felt a stony anger settle into a deep space below his stomach.

"Scoundrels," he sneered, "and _thieves_. You deal your potions to the unwitting and turn lost souls into profit. You lie and cheat people of their freedom without any guilt of conscience. How _dare_ you show your face in these lands? Your kind was banished long ago!"

Danza leapt up to meet him.

"What would you know, elfling?" she cried, "You hear only the stories your kin tell you, and believe you me, those tales always favor the Elves more than they do the truth.

"Though we are tricksters and revelers," she went on, "the Romni are a greedless folk. We have never begged, never stolen. No, good Elf, we have _worked!_ Across the ages, we have performed little feats and tricks in exchange for coin, food, and pasture for our horses. We were _always_ harmless to you and all else!

"But then came the Darkness, the long shadows from the East. In a time of such evil and suspicion, all races of Middle Earth lost any kindness they had for us wandering Romni; we were just too strange for your comfort. We were called Outsiders, gypsies! At every door, we were turned away with black looks. We lost audience and income, and we starved!

"When we sought help, we found none. Desperate to put bread in the mouths of our children, we shook the wrongs hands, but we had no love for ourselves for doing it. We did ill by you, our fellows, to whom in times past we had brought only the purest joy and merriment! We were remade by your ignorance into exactly what you feared us to be. But still, our ill-gotten gains sustained us, even after we were driven from these lands by the edge of Sylvan steel."

"Sylvan?"

"Aye. And _you're _one, aren't you? A woodlander. Known among Elf-kind for your tempers and brutality. Perhaps you can ask that _s'vik_ king of yours how he liked keeping as slaves the Romni elderly who couldn't outrun his horses?"

Legolas did not know the word she used to describe the King of Mirkwood, but Danza's tone needed no translation. The Prince felt the insult unravel within him like hot wire. Incensed, he bore down on the Romni woman, his eyes like foundries.

"You will mind how you speak about my father, _poisoner!_"

His words cleared the copse of night birds, and there fell a long silence.

Danza was white and unmoving before him, lip curled and eyes hard. Her expression was one of shock and bald anger, but somewhere far below there laid a deep sorrow; it ran behind her gaze like water.

Legolas thrummed with emotion as he stared into her face. Every fiber of him bled cold rage, and the trees shivered, leaves turning to their grey undersides as if before a storm. In hushed tones, they spoke out: _Little Greenleaf, fair Thranduilion, your hurt disquiets us . . ._

Their words shivered in his mind.

_Your hurt, your grief, your fear, fair Thranduilion . . ._

Legolas turned his head to the side, closing his eyes tightly. He listened.

_Your mind casts shadows over your heart, little one. You are sick with ill feelings, but fear not. You are in good company. Have no hate for the Wandering One, for she is friend to Life from ant to Ent. _

The Prince drew in a gasp and felt the air glow in his chest. It came as a cool comfort, expanding to fill him. This was the Green Breath, the balm of the forest. A sense of calm slackened his frame and he suddenly felt very tired. For many long days, he realized, his mind had been pulling itself thin with worry. The result was quick anger and easy grief.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and turned back to Danza. She, too, seemed distant, as if listening. After a moment, her gaze returned as well.

Legolas hesitated. Then he bowed.

"I have judged you without knowing you," he said, voice low, "I owe you my apologies. I've not been myself of late."

For a moment, Danza said nothing. Then she released a sigh, stepping forward.

"I can see Thranduil in you, but you are not him. The trees have a greater fondness for you."

She touched him on the shoulder, bidding him to rise. When he looked up, he saw a strange, sad smile had been cast across her face.

"You are Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of Mirkwood," she said, as if hearing the words aloud would help her believe them.

Legolas nodded.

The sorrow behind Danza's eyes began to run heavier.

"You mother was lost to Romni Red Milk."

It was not a question, so he did not confirm it.

"That is a pain we both share, then," she said.

Legolas lifted his chin in surprise, but Danza offered him no further explanation. She looked away and spoke instead of the rising moon.

"We are not far off from the camp," she said, "and this light will hasten our journey. Hurry now. More than ever, I feel we have a great deal to discuss."

Danza gathered her skirts and made for a thin path through the wood. Legolas followed, but was forced to stop short when she paused abruptly. She looked back at him.

"Just as you are not the Elf who imprisoned my ancestors, I am not the Romni who poisoned your mother. Shall we do our best to remember this about each other?"

Legolas looked down and gave a bow of his head. A smile curled his mouth.

"This is truly the strangest night I've had in ages," he said.

Danza laughed, and the silver sound called night birds back to the trees. All traces of her anger had faded.

"For you, it is likely to get much stranger. I don't suppose the Prince of Mirkwood has ever been in the company of a Romni caravan. No? I didn't think so."

* * *

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Much love,

_~Dances-With-Cacti_


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